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DUSK. 



Qxxty Sonnets 

[Thoughts and Emotions] 



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• BY 

Louis M. Elshemus 

Author of " Songs of Southern Scenes," " Mammon," etc. 



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EASTMAN LEWIS 

152 W. 55th Street 
New York 



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•'Copyright, 1904, by Louis M. Elshemus. 



Patteson Press, N. Y. 



Contents* 

ntroduction 5 

I he Poet 7 

'oetry 7 

Jenius 8 

sbikespeare's Melody 8 

re Milton 9 

VLystery's Unfolding 9 

Dpen and Covert Hell lo 

Song's Spirit lo 

rke Bourne to Our Thinking Powers ii 

[n the Darkness of Evening ii 

rhe Muse as Saviour I2 

Dne Expression of the Soul I2 

yiusset and Longfellow I3 

\ly Love I3 

\ Scene in the Tropics 14 

[nspinition 14 

rime 15 

rhe World's Verdict i5 

Salambo's Death (G. Ferriers' Painting) 16 

rhe World 16 

rhe Thunder Storm 17 

rhe Sun as a Magic Painter 17 

Sfovember 18 

Love 18 

Feeling 19 

Sonnet 19 

Sonnet 20 

ro the Mountain Wind 20 

Ubiquity of Beauty 21 

rhe Sense of Sleep 21 

Deception 22 

Learn God's Works 22 

Fears of Thanks 23 

rhe Individual Conviction 23 

rhe True Pianist 24 

alorious Eyes 24 

rhe Inspired Musician 25 

\ July Morn 25 

\ Brook Seat 26 

Musical Themes 26 

Songwright and Symphonist 27 

rhe Windows of the Soul 27 



Popularity 

Hetares 

Nature Sways Us After All 

The Sweetest, Shortest Sonnet 

Question and Answer 

Italian 

Spanish 

The Saddest Case in Life 

The Daemons to Love 

To Dream that the Earth has Thought 

Sonnet 

The English Language (Modern) 

Religion 

Death 

Sonnet 

The Final Sleep .' 

Thirst for Beauty 

Immortality of Poetry 



Introduction. 

It is with great pleasure that I write a few words of com- 
lent on Elshemus's works. I have long admired the original 
one of his verses, that, as he says, come to him all ready-sung 
irithin his mind. In these days of materialism, it is pleasant to 
ind a man who holds his own in the world of idealism. Also, to 
now that he possesses character; and, like Walt Whitman, pities 
he Philistines; at the same time listens undaunted to the voice 
•f his inspiration. For what is poetry good for, if it does not 
ixpress the emotions and the new ideas of a fearless man, who 
(links beyond the limits of the hypocritic crowds? 

In these days of hurry and fretting, most books of poetry 

not inform the reader who the poet is, how he works, and 
'hat he has accomplished. The age is too mercenary to think — 
)0 selfish to heed a new work of thought. 

Elshemus is one of those complex souls that are exceptions 

1 the annals of humanity. He does three things well; he paints, 
rites, and he can compose music. He has painted landscapes of 
oetic value; figure-paintings of strikingly original conception; 
tid has composed musical pictures and songs, worthy of a true 
lusician. He delights in all three branches of art. It is indeed 
ire to find a man, who has written about everything the human 
lind can think of, who at the same time is able to write his own 
lusic, and then turn to his brushes, and achieve great and charm- 
[g results in painting. In brief, Elshemus is so many-sided, that 

is difficult to credit him with so many works, many of them as 
erfect as those of the masters. 

Elshemus's methods of work are inspirational. He writes 
nly when he has thoughts to express, or some novel story to 
ill. Hence, one can notice the fire, the vigor, the strenuousness 
f his poetry. He is one with the inspiration possessing him. 
a painting he is marvelously rapid. It is concentration of mind 
lat allows him to achieve things with such celerity. One of the 
onnets in this volume he wrote in five minutes, viz.: The In- 
)ired Musician. That is phenomenal. 

What has Elshemus accomplished? He has told me. He 
is to his credit ten books published, three of which are in prose, 
e has written over a thousand sonnets — a few plays, dramas, 
Drettos — countless poems, filling over sixty volumes; many bal- 
ds, and lyrics. His artistic output is baffling as well: over 300 
intings and over 400 sketches. In music he has over twenty 
•itten piano-pieces — and a thousand themes in his head, waiting 
be committed to paper. I have not seen all of his works, but 
bm what he has shown me, I have noticed that, like Shake- 
leare, Elshemus does not repeat himself. He is so original 
id his soul utterly inexhaustive. And all of his works are good. 

T. A. 

i 
I 



SIXTY SONNETS 



Cbe poet 

?he poet is a wondrous piece of clay, 

Wherein God breathed a wondrous, glorious soul ! 

Inspired, he hears the far millennium's toll — 
lees Death and Life contend : a furious fray ! 
ireat God, in His all-goodness, starts his lay, 

And showers down calm patience, till the goal 

Is blooming; — then he hears acclaimings roll — 
Vhose echo the dull world hear from far away ! 

) who may teach the poet what to pipe ! 

Not even he who pigments words to dreams. 

For God sends Angels down, with varied themes, 
Vrit on rosed tablets — with His Archetype — 

And therefrom poets sing their lays — that flow 

Like Seraph singing, when God's heavens glow! 

/^ 

poetry. 

) man, misjudge not poetry ! Not the glow 
In verse, like diamond, is its fair device — 
Nor any tiar — nor queen's robe of bice, 

>amask-inlined ! No glittering turgid row 

>f Orient words — no pageants ; nor a flow 
Of tinkling phrases is true poetry — 
It is strife's solacing; thoughts' ecstasy 

o bloom death — God ! — it is soul's earnest throe ! 

"e mighty men, that, not content with gold. 
Or vermeil-sheen have written heart-wrought verse — 
Ye are the poets of this universe ! 

ot Keats is great — 'tis Musset ! Ay, I hold 
Him poet divine, who, having suffered long. 
Hath waged life's battle with his heart-sprung song! 



SIXTY SONNETS 



Genius* 

Those talents that enchain the common world 

They stand and sing upon the tide-lorn beach — 
They but amuse the crowd — but do not teach. 

They are like dulse or shells the surf has swirled. 

They shine within the glow of ardent sun ; 

But they are washed away when, swell and swell, 
The incoming tide doth rush ungovernable, 

And sings so loud and clear to drown each one ! 

'Tis thou, O Genius, like the monstrous tide 
That cometh, faintly heard at first, and seen 
But as soft foam upon the far main's green — 

Then strideth, with deep sound and waves shore-wide. 
To swallow all the beach and rock-isles there — 
Dost drown all others with thy song so fair ! 

Sbakespcare'e JMelody* 

Great poets have I read — but Shakespeare owns 
A melody apart ! none wield his harp ; — 
Most strains, although mellifluent, are sharp 

Compared with William's tuneful, doleful tones — 

Ah me ! his undersong ! like evening-lones 
That wail their wonder to the firmament — 
Or like the air, soon after Luna went 

To hide abaft the dell where Terra moans ! 

Those sonnets sound, as though the sea had soared 
To nebulous heights, and, hearing the sad air 
Make softer moan, beyond the main's compare — 

Had lingered ! so to lessen what it roared 
Around the all-mysterious clififs and leas, 
To some vague strain, kin to Eternity's ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 



Co JMUtoti* 

O like some self-involving thunder-cloud 

Whirling upwards, from seething seas to skies, 
Where lightnings flash with luminous fire-surprise ; 

Then, low-suspended, glorious in its tortuous shroud, 

It dashes through the air with thunder loud — 
Dashes so swiftly like a wild full sail 
Sped by a phantom's rage o'er ocean's wail, 

Intensely whirling, of his own wild swell so proud — 

So thou, eternal Milton, soul sublime ! 

No man on earth had thy great Michael's voice. 

Thou wast like star-clash ; ocean's hollow noise. 
Or, when in thought, a peak in condor's clime. 

Outtopping mortal doing : a soul of God — 

A storm, awe-spreading, purging air and sod ! 

)My6ter/9 Unfolding* 

Oh ! one by one they do unfold — those thousand 
Pure petals of the flower Mystery ! 
Like some Nelumbo on some Indian sea. 
Spreads out its table-petals, while the sunshine 
Welters upon the quivering height of earth's air ! 
Oh ! one by one they burst so beauteously — 
Those thought-buds — sumptuous, like the lily free 
Buds gloriously by hymning Indian-Temple ! 

Oh ! Mystery is blossoming — Spring is showering 
Her fecund dews upon each sweet unfolding 
Rosed-petal ! — Mystery is budding fair ! 
Each moment bursts a bud; O fragrance spending; 
Each hour flush her blossoming scents round-spreading- 
And Mystery's Perfumes wander There, oh ! There ! 



lO 



SIXTY SONNETS 



Open and Covert Relt 

There is a pool, whose sUme is visible 

To sauntering swains ; another lies away 

In far recess, where doe and serpent dwell. 

Whose surface is so clear to show the jay 

That flitteth overhead ; but deep, deep down 

There brood the rotten trunks — and algae thrive — 

The sUme breeds bodies red and green, and brown. 

All ugly to behold. So some, who drive 

Away the diamond-hearts with language vile ; 

And others, with kind features, reflect the skies ; 

But when aroused — what tongues with filth and guile ! 

What darkness neath the shining fair disguise. 

The world hath such — shun thou the frank, vile tongue- 

But fear the calm one, when his blast be flung ! 



Song's Spirit. 

Is there a Spirit that comes silently 

O as the breath from roses on the hill 

Comes wafted through the fragrant copse so still ! 

Comes, as the warm kiss, floating from the lea 

Of Melos' main to the Italian sea ! 

Comes to me ; gently guiding thought and quill — 

Breathes on me, till its whispers overspill — 

Comes to me wreathing laurels, blessing me ! 

O as the languorous lily feels Love's aurea, 

When spiced breezes sing of beauty's glory — 

So, when at unknown moments, comes that breath — 

Then heaves my heart — my soul exhales its beauty — 

As the fair lily, so does my soul its duty — 

As the queen-flower, my song perfumes at death ! 



SIXTY SONNETS ii 



Cbe Bourne to Our Cbinking powers* 

There is a bourne to all our thinking powers — 

O Soul, that rulest all our mind, and grieving ! 

Heaped up before us is a mound of flowers 

Whose scents we smell, whose form's deceiving. 

Long laid beyond this bourne's a languid sea, 

That fadeth in a deep unfathomed sky — 

No boat we have, to know what yonder be — 

But tranquil on the strands we long must lie ! 

There is a bourne that pales our dreams of yonder — 

We may yet dance with Fancy's children, yet 

An abysm's there — filled with strange peals of thunder. 

Nigh to its edge we dally with regret : 

For there's the bourne to all our thinking powers, 

To think beyond its realm — we reap Death's Dowers. 

In the Darkness of evening* 

Why is it. Sweet ! we sit and sit : from fall 
Of sun into the radiant west, soon dim. 
Unconscious that eve's quiet solemn hymn 

Floats round us, to the dark hour, when night's pall 

Doth soundless cluster round the tired earth? 
Why do we sit, and let our dreams enwreathe 
Each other's souls, while we but love and breathe — 

Ne'er thinking that the winter-eve had birth? 

We need no Hght to lume the lonely room ; 

Thou can'st not see my face, though close before thee. 

Still, we do sit and talk, while I adore thee 
As dusky Kings some glow-nelumbo's bloom ! 

Oh ! that, though darkness us surrounds, we need 

No light to see our souls, whom Love doth lead ! 



12 S IXTY SON NETS 



Cbe jMiise as Saviour. 

As those seamen, by winter gales so wild, 

Had lost their steamer near the coast, were made 
To take to boats, then on the seas storm-riled 

Adrift, within the icy airs, they stayed — 
As one brave sailor kept their spirits sane 

By singing songs of sheeny days and glow — 
Or saying soon the far coast they would gain — 

Or seeing for them headHghts, moving slow — 
In short, inspired hope though -they were lost 
Upon the seas and ice-bound, tempest-tosst — 

So in my lonely life — when hope had flown 
And on the icy seas of last despair 

My world-ignored soul rode ruth-lorn on — 
My Muse saved me with all her songs so fair ! 



One expression of the Soul* 

Often my soul felt just like — well how draw 
The image of the soul's quick feeling strange 
When unsubstantial it through thought doth range — 

And is not known to sight by any law — 

That governs earth or any matter there — 
So felt my soul — like fitful Spring afly — 
Like unconcern's sweet ingenuity — 

Like sprigs of roses kept atremble fair 

By some bird's breast aquiver from sweet song — 
But could I think to mould my soul's strange feeling 

So others could enjoy it — nay — but lo ! 

This afternoon the hurrying throng among 

There passed me one young girl whose face did show 
The feeling that my soul was aye concealing. 



S IXTY SONNETS 13 



JMusect and LongfcUow. 

Passion's Poet ! whom the Muse lugubrious sought 

Of lonely nights — to whom thou didst thy heart outpour- 
More do I love thee, all thy woeful thought ; 

Thy tears, and thy despair ; thy Hfe so sore. 
More than the songs of him who, passion free. 

Delved not in depths where disappointment wails — 
Who sang calm songs, who knew no misery — 

Nor called upon the Muse when life-love fails ! 
O let me read thy anthems to the Muse — 

Musset, true poet, such a poet loves — 
For thou hadst dreamed the lofty thoughts I choose 

When last despair knocks — and so ruthless proves. 
Longfellow — fluting facile tunes through life — 
Musset, thou hero in despair and strife. 



JMy Love. 

My love is like unto some cloud that specks 

The midday sky when May peeps forth from fields 
That gradual fall down to the stream ; — she decks 

Her banter with such light the May-cloud yields : 
Soft light that speaks of gentle freshness near — 

Yet seems to tell that all its brightness bears 
Not one perpetual prospect of sun-cheer — 

But in its purpose hides a spring of tears. 
So is my love when she her accent swells : 

You think her wish is to enliven all 
With flowery yield as May the woodland-dells ; 

But her dear tone some deeper thoughts enthrall : 
Thoughts, she dare tell not to my anxious face — 
Thoughts, filled with love and timid maiden-grace ! 



14 SIXTY SONNETS 



H Scene in the Cropics^ 

My boat I moored upon the coral-reef 

That forms the blue, deep, Pernambuco Bay — 
What time the glorious moon, in full array. 

Rode up the star-strown sky, like famed White Chief 

Athwart the lone plains, north of Mexico. 
Olindo, coco-palmed, slept on the hill ; 
And I sat on the reef, while all was still — 

And thought of Inez, far at home, when lo ! 

From out the ocean's darkness flashed a score 
Of flying fish — their wings bejewelled bright 
From the resplendent moon's warm diamond-light ! 

They moved as though some magic semaphore .— 
Above the treacherous deeps — then dropped into 
The main, where wait the ravenous dolphin-crew ! 

/^ 

Inspiration^ 

It is a pushing forward in the mind — 

Indomitably sure to pass great streams ; 
Or, as we do in our most daring dreams. 

Snatch at a mountain — till our courage find 

It gone — and onward gainst a furious wind 
We once arrive at goal that richly beams 
With what we saw^ while inspiration deems 

Us worthy to perform what she designed. 

Then must I think of Leonardo when he drew 
That combat twixt two men on horses strong — 
Or more than marvellous than sublime song 

When Michael Angelo, by inspiration new 

Led — made us see those Pisan soldiers' fear 
And actions, when they heard their enemy near ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 15 



Thou only furtherer of all men know — 

Fond friend to knowledge, love and pasttimes sweet — 
Thou Mercury with winged fire-shod feet ! 

Prometheus with thee to bloom doth grow — 

Ah [ Time ! without whom never child could go 
Where fragrant bowers blow for lovers meet, 
Without whom never god-souled man could greet 

The smiling face of fame, with light aglow ! 

Oh! art thou God — Time! thou Creator? 

For without thee no child would gladden earth — 
To boy and girl thou art the one elator 

That lead them on, to love's rose-scented birth — 
And Time ! without thee God could ne'er have made 
This universe, whom life and death pervade. 

/^ 

Cbc Cdorld's Verdict. 

Firdausi's singing on his heart he wore — 

Christ's wisdom long had filled his noble soul — 
He knew all works — new volume, ancient scroll — 

In arts adept — in music versed — and more 

Such knowledge that the Ages give he knew — 
So went he to new peoples to do good — 
To teach the worthy — and the fatherhood — 

But when he had the throng in nearest view 
And said : *T come to tell you what I know," 

"Know? — You? — Your eye is dull, and glib your speech." 
They shouted all in one ; then would they throw 

Stones at him — cut his lips : "What could he teach?" 
So was he stoned, like Christ, for one grand vow — 
Because his greatness shone not on his brow ! 



i6 SIXTY SON NETS 



SaUtnbo's Death. 

(G. Ferriers' Painting.) 

Thou fanciful fair queen, whose sudden whim 

Made thee deride Death — scorning his own way 
To bear thee his dread cup with swoon-herbs shm — 

Thy soul could trust no more to earthly day 
That scoffed at thy polluted form so white 
And all voluptuous-grown. At that fire-hour 

That burst thy soul — the painter's inward sight 
Saw thee : the python slowly to devour 
Thy beauty writhing in fierce agony — 

Conscious that fore-called death hiss at thine ear — 
Thou feeling his dread coil so torturingly 

Around thy zone — yet hearing music near : 
Thy wise forethought, that melody and song 
Would daze thy mind, so pain be not so strong. 

/^ 

Cbe Cdorld- 

The world is bad, at best. It loves the low 
And scandalous: a murder or red lust; 
Mocking at all the valor of the just — 

Forever honoring shallow pelf and show. 

It leaves the Christs to their own hallowed dreams 
And scorns the upright ways of saintliness — 
Perjures, and, hypocritic loves the dress 

Of low deceit — foreswearing Honor's gleams. 

Oh ! therefore, winds that sway this broad-boled beech 
Overhanging the slow lapping river-waves, 

I sadden here : none listen when I teach — 

God-natured souls in vain sing out their staves — 

Ah ! who would dream here on this log alone — 

Where birds and winds their merry songs entone? 



SIXTY SON N ETS 17 



^ Cbe Cbunder Storm* 

I see the ragged skirt of thee, O Storm — 

As thou dost wander down the valley there — 
And see below, where thy dread body warm 

Is one grey sheet of level cloud and air, 
Thy filmy tridents brighten suddenly — 

Then hear I distant roaring of thy thunder. 
Here all is still, no drop of rain falls free — 

Then am I wild, and my weird thought doth wonder. 

Oh ! art thou too a being, fluid, light — 
That shapes itself above the ocean wide 
To roam o'er plain and crest, and mountain side, 

Filling all creatures with a wild affright ? 
A girdle round thy watery body warm. 
Thy lightning is thy thought O dreaded Storm ! 



Cbc Sun as a JVIagic painter. 

Oh ! is it true those mountain crests are green — 

This morning when the clouds roam o'er our heads ? 

For yester eve, just as the sun was seen 
To bid farewell to vale and watersheds, 

That pine-clad mountain crest was jasper-sheen, 
With lines as pink as tints on dahlia beds ; 

While the near mountain-sides were vibrant gold, 

And gold the roofs of each fair village-fold. 

O Sun, thou painter, all our eyes to daze. 

Ay, strange magician, when thou settest still — 
O'er mount and tree, and vale and crest of hill — 

Making of green a living crysoprase — 

And gilding boles, and giving wondrous glow 
To all the mounts, ere thou dost from us go. 



i8 SIXTY SONNET S 



I^ovetnber. 

Not one lone floweret peeps above the grass ; 
But slowly the old turf lies prone to ice — 
And winds do whistle in the sky of bice — 

While, at the evening, birds of passage pass 

Athwart the golden glare of sunset's dying ! 
The shivering trees abraded of their leaves 
Stand like a hero when his sore heart grieves — 

And, all around, the colored leaves are flying ! 

The cold days rap at autumn's colored door — 

The fields He bare — all songbirds now are gone — 
And where the luscious blooms in glory shone 

Old earth gloats at the wolds and plains so frore — 
And, like regretful ghosts, athwart the grey 
And moving sky, the leaves so dreariy play ! 

Love. 

The only way to prove that I do love 

Thee, peerless girl who scorned me all the time. 
Is showing thee the volumes of my rhyme ; 

The Dramas that I wrote — inspired from Above. 

O God — is wondrous nature but the outcome of 
The works thou didst for that one lovely Power, 
Whom thou didst love from chaos' frailest hour 

Till now, when glow thy mounts, thy plain, thy grove ? 

It needs must be ; for love alone can make 

Great works have shape and life — so all thine own — 

We see in nature's grandest scenes — in lake 

In sea, in mount — in plain — and all they own. 

O God — Thou must have loved some lovely Power 

To have created this earth's wondrous dower ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 19 



feeling* 

Think well before deserting life's rare husk 
Upon the wondrous treasure life endows — 
Beyond all senses, dreams, with latent vows 

Kept for fair praise when life grows like at dusk — 

One marvellous thing within our wondrous frame : 
It is sublimest feeling that like scent 
Lives all unseen, unheard, and wonderment 

Is unsubstantial like a lightning-flame ! 

Ah ! subtle Alchemy of God's own make 

Is feeling — got by touch — or O more rare 

When love-thoughts make our blood so sweet and fair- 

Or when in us the visions high awake — 

Or when slow tears from depths unknown arise, 
Tears wept in antepast of radiant skies ! 



Sonnet 

Like one, who in some seaward chamber pines 
Shuts up all senses ; locks her inmost heart ; 
Performs naught that her loving moods demand. 
Forgetful of the glorious sun that shines ; 
Of each glow-cap that rolleth to the land ; 
Deaf to eve's harmony, to morning's start 
Of vocal liquitude ; — so I these days 
Oblivious of Her sweet prophetic lays ! 

But she will be again fond auditor 
I When o'er the burning wave her lover comes — 
w ith him to muse as oft on days before ; 

Dream with the salt-spice as it landward roams. 
So will I open all those Ears and Eyes — 
In Nature find surprise on sweet surprise ! 



20 S IXTY SONNETS 



Sonnet 

My score-stringed lyre I tune to peaceful song ; 

To ditties heard by meadow streams in May ; — 

To madrigals for bridals on fair day ; 
To melodies that flow for Sunday's throng — 
But rarely will my lyre sound the fray 

That made tumultuous cannonading long 

Through hours, where Santiago's mounts among 
The echos rang, the blare of war's dismay. 

To Peace, the solacer of mankind frail — 
To her, the comforter of all man's woes, 
My tunes reverberate in splendent glows — 

Ignoring all the strifeful nation's wail — 

The reign of Kings, whom Murder sought as spoil — 
The great campaigns, that seemed one bloody toil! 



Co the JMountain Odind. 

To thee, O glorious mountain-wind, a meed 

More precious than the scents they burn in Ind, 
When for their temple's Lakshmi-feast they find 

Fit sacrifice whom they to altar lead 

With cymbal, dance, and song, and flower-trains ! 
For thou dost blow so strong that I must sing 
Though in my mind is only sorrowing — 

Yet thou dost sweet invoke joy's brilliant strains. 

What mystic influence hath thy joyous blast 
O mountain-wind ! that while the trees are loud 
With joy — the sun-kissed air shouts at thy coming— 
Within my mind forlorn hope songs are blooming ; 
And, though I would to curse man's life so proud, 
At once I would earth-life with thee could last ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 21 

Ubiquity of Beauty. 

When Lilian said farewell, methought, no more 

Her equal I could find in town or plain. 
I rued her absence from the knoll or shore ; 

I thought I would be searching all in vain ! 

When, while I travelled to far scenes all strange 
I There, there, in each new town her face I found, 

* Her shape voluptuous — and her gaze profound. 
Where'er I went her semblance there did range ! 

So is fair nature wondrous kind to man 

She makes her various types full hundred times 
Again — again ! and though we wander to all climes 

The face, the shape, the glance, the whole sweet plan 
We find in every place ; for nature's heart 

• Is kind to show our loves in every part. 

' Cbc Sense of Sleep* 

O I had felt the sense of sleep that happy hour 

When flesh to flesh in sweet embracement warm we lay 
I felt each curvature of her voluptuous clay 

And I was thrall to Love's so tender drowsy power. 

We lay sweet lost in cither's lines, so closely bound — 
No weft the spider weaves could sorcerer lay between. 
Then closed our eyes, and soothingly the Poppy Queen 

Breathed on our minds so we heard not one sound. 



Sleep came so drowsily within my mind, it seemed 

The drowse of summer's noon lay o'er our loving souls. 

I felt sleep come, as when on woodland lawn there streamed 
The languid heat from flower-strown and wooded knolls. 

And then I lost the sense of life, for sleep came soft 

As dreamy wafts of summer from the mountain-croft ! 



22 SIXTY SONNETS 

Deception. 

My soul v/ent out to wander o'er the fields 

Of universal space ; and there it found a flower, 
Rare, radiant like fresh dew in morn's glow-bower. 

Pressed in my brain, this perfume new it yields : 

How nature doth deceive humanity ! 

The sun, that dwells farther than stars of night, 
We see so large, it fills dark earth with light, 

When millions of brightest stars shine in night's sky, 

Yet spread no light on darkness-doting earth. 

So were our long-dead sires, that feared death ended 
All, all, assured of other worlds, soul-blended — 

When awe-astonished at night's wondrous birth 

Their raptured eyes saw all the gold-sparkles bloom 
O'erhead, that sang : there's life beyond man's tomb ! 

Learn 6od^6 Hlorhs. 

How self-sufficient, proud, and vain is man ! 
The flute, or clarionet may never ring 
So liquid-toned, as when the thrushes sing! 

Man tries to take his pride to workman's plan — 

But never praises that which God best can ! 

For God hath formed the thrushe's throat to bring 
Such lubric gurgle, and such marvelling. 

Without man's bettering His higher Plan ! 

O man ! praise, praise ! O listen more ; and learn 
That God surpasses all our art and skill. 
No one can imitate the concert-thrill 

Of many bulbuls, when the morn-stars burn. 
No skill of greatest man can imitate 
The thrushes' flute-call by the forest-gate ! 



SIXTY SON N ETS 23 



Cears of Cbatihs. 

I would my eyes had tears to shed. O why 

Must man be so renounced of feeHng's best 
And sweetest Alchemy ? I would to cry 

The long day through, till evening's balmy rest — 
O weep as mothers do, when their new child 

Is held before their glistening eyes ; O weep. 
Till all my thanks had rushed their praise, so wild — 

O wild as mother's first kiss, when asleep. 
In rosy sleep, her firstling be ! I would tears shed, 

Till all my tears filled the pure evening-skies — 
Till all my thanks would be like scent, new-wed 

With tranquil roses, when the new-moon dies ! 
O weep the long day through, as trees of balm — 
For Angels give me dreams, and thought and spalm. 



Cbe Individual Conviction. 

Whoever, at the call of slanderous talk. 

Hath will sufficient to keep checked his wrath ; 
And take unto his higher self the path 

Of superiority of mind ; and walk 

Unmoved to the high mount of thought's own calm — 
He hath gained victory sublime, and knows 
The feeling of strong soldiers in army-rows ; 

And can sing well to Will-power a fair spalm. 

seems that all of us think that we have 
More knowledge than our neighbor ; thus when guile 
Besets us ; or low slander for the while ; 
We mind it not; but we its sting do brave. 
And to the inner, higher conviction call ; 
Then truthful say : 'T am above them all !" 



24 SIXTY SONNETS 



Zhc Zrw pianist 

Not as the gale its power doth display — 

The pianist must his arms develop strong — 
But supple as the reed, where lilies throng, 

They must be, so they mellow all the lay. 

Thus Chopin was so like an evening reed — 

That, sinewy, sways to every breeze its stem ; 
So soft of touch, he could interpret them 

Whose rich, fair tones were hke a minstrel's meed. 

Not powerfully muscular must he be. 

The fair musician — but his hands must press 
Upon the keys with dream's own loveliness ; 

And thrilled with passion's softer poetry. 

Then think I of pale Chopin, evening-dreaming. 
When from his fingers tunes divine were streaming ! 

/^ 

6lonou8 eyes. 

I know her eyes — full oft' I've seen them play 
With mine at love-tag. Oh ! how quickly fell 
Her languid lid to hide those orbs that spell — 

Two moments so upon their glow would stay; 

Then opened both — oh ! hast thou seen the day 
Burst fulgent through a vale of asphodell — 
So glowed they — and I walked so dearly well 

Within their glory as on jewelled way ! 

So glorious rolled they, like some chariot's glow 
Whom an ound radiant Amazon doth guide ; 
It seemed some flower wreathed portal opened wide : 

Out burst the festant fulgence — and, in row 

Or blaze-confusion, shone the thousand halls — 
Like sun-lit foam on vernal water-falls ! 



SIXTY SONN ETS 25 



tibe Inspired ]Mu9ictaii. 

There, see him at the piano seated, dreaming — 

His eyes tight-closed, his fingers Hghtly borne 
Over the keys, while to him tunes come streaming 

As fleetly as the Zephyrs of the morn. 
His head now bent — now proud he rears his head, 

As solemn chords he strikes to thought religious — 
. Then hangs his head, while sweetest strains, that, wed 
I With harmonies divine, show him prodigious, 
Purl languorous. He dreams, with eyes well closed — 

His soul hears lays unwonted — then he plays them ! 
Now rapt he grows, as all his soul is rosed 

From whispering Spirits ! — And then he humbly lays them 
Before the dull proud world, that deems him worth 
No slight reward — he, god upon this earth ! 



H 3uly JMorn- 

It is so still, you hear the oar-lock sound ; 

Each stroke, each word the fishermen do say — 
The clouds scarce move within the clear profound. 

They but expand — but never drift away. 
The river doth reflect each twig, each leaf. 

The birdsongs from afar sound as if near. 
You hear the rustle of the shore-grown sheaf — 

The fish leap from the river-shallows clear. 

juch July-morn is full of deep repose ; 
Too still for one who bears a sorrow yet. 
But now the trees are filled with lisping tune : 
A plaintive note of life ; and who but knows 
That such a stillness will not last — for soon 
The winds will rise, and all will storm or fret ! 



26 SIXTY SON N ET S 



3 Brooh Seat 

This seat between two tall pine trees I love — 
Not as 'tis near the rhododendron bushes, 
But as beside its edge the mount brook rushes : 

Its braided or soft-swelling wavelets prove 

So cool when o'er the bench's back I lean 

To see the sparkle and hear the brooklet's sound. 
How glad I was when chance and poetry found 

This seat sequestered, in midst of woodlands green ! 

But strange, there are so few who love its dell ; 

Full often I have come to seek its shade. 
But never once I found some others there ! 

Here dally spring-cool breezes in the air — 
The murmurs soothe the mind — the brooklet's swell 

Lets me bear plaints that man's proud nature made. 



]VIu9ical Cbcmes* 

Sweet girl, just thirteen summers breathing here, 

Sit near me, when my fingers touch the keys. 

For gazing at thee, sudden melodies 
Come to my mind. But if thou art not near, 
No wondrous theme comes purling to my hands — 

Strange, strange, my young girl, that, when seeing thee, 

My soul is glowing with new melody — 
A song, whom but a genius understands ! 

Sit, so I may thy features contemplate — 
Then will I gaze into thy dreaming eyes 
And from the keys new glowing melodies 

Will sound, that will thy young soul elevate 

To thoughts too deep for thee, yet dear to me — 
For thy dear presence wrought the melodic ! 




REVERIE. 



SIXTY SON NETS 27 



Songwrigbt and S)mipboiii8t 

Like flitting birds above the rushing brook at day — 

(Gray crest on head — long tails rare tipped with gold)- 
So easily the songwright writes his tripping lay — 
His thoughts flit fain above song's happy fold. 
But he whose symphonious works delight the world — 

He, like some alchemist, with varied fluids 
Evolving gold, composes harmonies that swirled 
I In seas of yore, inspiring hoary Druids ! 

Winged sweetness flitting on a soft June morn. 

So trip to him sweet tunes like fairies bright and rare ; 
The vanguard of the storm in summer's thunder air — 

So from the symphonist his work is born. 

One playing with the ripples of the meadow stream. 
The other gloriously evolving a mighty dream ! 

Cbe Cdindows of the 8out 

Where lilacs lull the bees with purple song 

Lowly the cot's small windows gaze, half-hid : 
So, eyes, not bold, peep from the lowly lid — 
And back of them there is no pageant-throng — 
But commonplace doth prattle all day long. 

Yon dome-framed windows give to kings sun's light ; 
Within rare ornaments, sweet learning bright — 
i So the full eye, whose soul is sumptuous, young. 

I Therefore to me, when dying, let those eyes 

I That seem like temple-windows, gaze at me — 

Behind them lives a wondrous soul, world-free — 
Yet those of poets have huge homes, like skies ; 
Radiant with varieties, and nature's store : 
Thrilled with the Touch of Him Who's evermore ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 



popularity* 

Unknown he soared through song's supremest air 
A wise Apollo, sowing good for all — 
Yet no one on the earth, did, 'stounding, fall 

To reverence a god beyond compare ! 

Then down upon the glebe he fluttered low ; 

And picked upon the strings of commonplace. 

Full quickly gazed the world upon his face, 
Though he but hummed a tune with no true glow ! 

Thus may one win the plaudits manifold 

Of popularity by trick and gold. 
And though you be as high as God — no man 

Of worldly heart will give you worthy praise. 
But be the image of world's sordid plan : 

For you sweet fame, and opulent glory-days ! 



Retares* 

Girls beautiful, in world's great lupenar, 
You are the roses, violets, and flowers. 
That most invite to them sweet Flora's showers, 

Culled in the fairest grove neath brightest star. 

Yet you are pinned upon the bodice red 

Of Vice — to fade there as some posy rare 

That peeps from forth a bosom young, half-bare, 

With no fruition ; with perfumes gone and fled. 

Some tears I shed for you, fair Hetares. 

For though your perfect flower-shape was meant 
For beauteous issue, passion pure forspent 

Her golden hours, and no sweet face was born. 

O world ! your beauteous women, fair as morn, 

Are posies pinned on Vice's bodices ! 



SIXTY SONN ET S 29 



feature Sways Os Hf tcr Hit 

'Twas yesterday the muggy air oppressed 
My brain — so that no Hfe would stir in me. 
No song would flow, for not a breath so free 

Of wind did even float. All seemed distressed, 

And heat pervaded all the hazy scene. 

Dull lay the air, and duller seemed my brain ; 
All was like a calm tropic Summer-main. 

But this new morn the wind was on the green — 

On mountain low, and through the valley blew; 
So that its music flushed my brain to song, 
It seethed in songs of lulls and floods along ; 

It flowed heroic as when battles brew. 

Till I, bathed in its high and songful wave, 
Felt spelled — and thus new songs to me it gave ! 



Cbc Sweetest, Shortest Sonnet 

Dove! 
Bliss 
Is 

Love. 
Prove 
This? 
Kiss, 
Love! 

Life 
Seems 
Sweet : 

To meet 
Wife- 
Dreams ! 



so SIXTY SONNETS 



Question and Hnswer. 

"Muse ! shall I take my lyre to touch its strings 
To songs too fair for mortal man to hear ? 
For these are days when no high tones ring clear — 

But poets voice the lowest themes and things. 

The poets of this hour forsake the glow 

That Milton or that Shelley once inbreathed — 
A hurly-burly songster now is wreathed — 

A God-like singer lives alone in woe. 

Then, shall I sing again those splendent songs 
Those songs I sang when Angels whispered me 
In hours of flowery youth, when all seemed free ?" 

*'Fond Child, keep aye what to thy soul belongs — 
Though most may love the trivial tune, that dies ; 
Sing thou the song that lives ten centuries !" 

Italian* 

The mellow flow of Tuscan-tales is full 

Of low sounds, lingering in a grot of old, 
Where bubbles fall upon the smooth pool cold, 

And mosses lone each birdling's tripping mull ! 

Low sounds, Hke brooding winds o'er heros' stones — 
Like echoes in a vale of rose-lulled hills — 
Like songs of saints where one lone fountain spills 

On vines her sacred sprays in soothing tones ! 

I love to hear thy heart-tongue flowing there — 

In view of sapphire lakes, from Arrogno's heights. 
Where chapels sleep, and wander eremites ; 

And thrushes tune the languorous fragrant air 
Like mellow waters in moss-glooms, from one. 
Whose pensive eyes lume her lips suave tone ! 



SIXTY SONNETS 31 



Spanish* 

Much richness in thine emollient speech prevails — 
Rich as a whispering thrush-tuned garden-close, 
When soft night tells a love-tale to the rose. 

Melodious, tender syllables, and wails — 

Like Azuelas' mourning, in deep dales, 

Prankt with rare luscious blooms so myth-perfumed : 
And sweet, as gracious light that sweetest bloomed. 

Where languorous nymphs lolled in Dawn's dewy pales ! 

But fairest, when thy dark-eyed beauties pause 

Within some rose-hedged park — atiptoe — telling 
To their adored what in their hearts was swelling — 

Or tender, that, methinks, when Moors, in gauze 

And clinking hauberts draped, had dumb thy towers- 
One word made them forget their war-sworn powers ! 



Cbe Saddest Case in Life. 

Man in his love-lorn solitude may rave ; 

But he's alone — no life does claim his powers ; 

He yet may work and reap some years' joy-hours. 
His manhood's strength his wretchedness may save. 
'Tis well with him. But woman in her woe — 

Her last woe, when forlorn, outcast, she be. 

And when she carrieth frail progeny — 
Ah ! there's no word to tell what paineth so : 

Forsaken by her lover ; forced to stay 

In some low house where love is trafficked for 
And there to do what mothers should ignore, 

Yet must, to earn a pittance for a day : 

Alone, with life new-blooming in her frame — 

As friends, her black despair, and man-wrought shame ! 



32 SIXTY SONNETS 



Zhc Daemone to Love* 

She loved her bonnie boy ; sweet Jessie's eyes 
Gazed rapturous on his stately figure fair. 
She vowed to be all true and everywhere — 

And prove in love to stay his dear surprise ; 

Till when a spinster came and whispered low 
To Jessie that she was a fool to love him deep 
And ever him within her heart to keep — 

'Thou hast rare sweetness — on ! to others go — 

"And draw them to thy charms — love them as well !" 
Then Jessie changed ! — She thought no more of him 
As oft of yore — ^but gave herself to whim 

And fancy, till she grew a maid of hell — 
And thus it was that her own sisters made 
Of her a habitant in Vice's glade ! 



^o Dream that the Garth has ^bought 

How pleasant, lie upon a valley's sward, 

That gloometh in the upward grove of leafy 
Endogenous growth ; to loll, as ancient bard. 

Upon the fay's sweet flowers ; and flee those reefy 
Unprofitable pleasures of the world. O gaze 

With head, that hath a mossy pillow, up 
To the far, deep, high, concave azure blaze 

Of ether ; — dream, while rustling breezes drop 
Upon the silent leaves ; while o'er the hill 

An eagle screams ; or, by a rivulet. 
The blue-birds drink their vigor ; then all's still ! 

So that you hear the bursting violet. 
O while in such dreams, dream the earth is nought 
But life, with soul, and feeling, and a thought ! 



S IXTY SONNET S 33 



I Sonnet. 

How must those gods above us smile and smile 
To see what tortures men and women bear 
When loving those who for them do not care ! 

She who seems like a lass from Ischia-isle — 

She said she loves a man — and loves him deep — 
, When he's away her heart grows sad and sore — 
Though he neglects her — cares for her no more — 

She loves him fond — for sadness she must weep ! 

What is that sense, that fires deep longing aye — 
Why must we love those who can love us not — 
Yet they will ever haunt our daily thought — 

O are there gods that show us smiling May — 

Yet when we seem to wreathe love-flowers round 
From those we love comes no sweet countersound? 

Zht €ngU8b Language. 

(Modern.) 

Sweet sprung from simple sweetness — soul-adored 

In Engelland thy words were warded well and true — 
Pure speech was thine — fair as thy maidens grew 

And feehngs fond in thee were sweetly stored — 

Till thou didst voyage to far countries strange 

And there didst learn new habits — and new speech — 
Then to thy young ones thou, at home, didst teach 

The mixture — till from them new words would range. 

O English, though thou art so proud to hold 

All nations ^neath thee — thou their beggar art — 
And takest to thy self what they to thee impart — 

For thou hast stolen from all nations old 

Their words — so thou hast grown full rich — yet shame 
On thee, to keep aHve thy simple name ! 



I rvfn 



34 SIXTY SONNETS 



Religion. 

I know the sun's small orbit is controlled 

By some vast power greater than the sun — 
Yet that same power should have but begun 

Its power through might that had anterior hold 

Of power absolute — and so till dizzy grow 

Our thought's conceptions of an endless chain 
Of powers creating powers and powers again — 

This do deft science and rare logic know — 

But in our heart or in our musing soul 

There is a sentiment that seeks for God — 
Some mystery that shaped all on earth's sod 

Some vast omnipotence that knows our goal — 
So in the quiet hours below the skies 
We feel — and tears fill both our doubting eyes ! 

Death. 

O Death, O solemn, quiet, cheering Death ! 

Death, at whose dim portals, pictured faint 
Upon our soul's wide-waving common plaint — 

(Thou, Death ! Come tender me thy palm ; thy breath 
Waft o'er me, as the eve its woe o'er wreath 

Of bride expectant !) all this world's grey taint 
Will vanish ; we shall know life's end ; the quaint 
Solution of our struggles ; Death, fond Death ! 

O Death, acquaint me with thy nature's mood ! 

1 shudder at myself ! Is it the advent 
Of that fair festival with Thee — that flood 

On flood of hoary lore, and whispered words 
Find in me their tumultuous sea ! ! O words 
All men speak — yet their meaning's from Heaven sent. 



pd 



9.2 



SIXTY SON N ETS 35 



Sonnet 

How few do stand aghast to see her move : 

Huge Astarte ! she rising full and calm 

Up from the lands of eastern giant-palm ; 
Or wait, to know the trees of evening's grove 
Seem fallow in her gold glow ; then, above 

The trees, she wanders woe-wild on ; while balm — 

Imagination's incense, heats my palm. 
That would clutch the wild gloaming in wild love ! 

Who gazes at the star that shines, so far, 

Within the spreading liquid lily-gold 
Of the slow-rising winter-moon ? Who stands 

In awe to see Orion, giant old, 
Drag his great Dog up to the zenith-star — 

Then fall; — ^vanish below the southern strands? 

Zhc final Sleep. 

O we are only mirrors, wherein all. 

What nature has, reflected lies. We live 

Through day — at night, at unknown night — we give 

Our whole, whole life to fate ; our powers fall. 

Like lightning-struck eagles through the blast ; no call 
We hear ; we are no more ; we cannot shrive. 
For any sin — Death tells us legends ; give 

Him all thy secrets — thou art His own thrall ! 

To man, as to this globe, all things are given. 

The winter quieteneth all — sleep feigns us dead. 

Each morn we feel a spring arise ; each night 

An irresistible spell draws us to Heaven — 

We must die while we breathe in warmth ; why dread 

The final sleep, that wakes us to fresh might ! 



it ^ 



24 1904 

36 SIXTY SONNETS 



thirst for Beauty^ 

Though hills are wooded ; and the river flows 

So peaceful through the winding valley green ; 
Though here the chestnuts' blossoms glow in sheen 

Of summer-sunshine by the wild rock-rose ; 

Though here fond nature laughs, and shouts and glows 
My Orient-soul thirsts now for seventeen 
Fair Almehs, dancing ; while sweet in between 

Young children sing, dream-grouped in winding rows ! 

Not nature's varied charms alone my mind 

Entice these days, but there should here recline 
A maid voluptuous, garbed with flowers and vine ; 

Then rise in glory ! and her dances wind 
In languorous ease, so I behold how she 
The prize of woman's sinuous beauty be ! 

IininortaUty of poetry. 

They say 'tis vain to write the song that glows 
Within the soul, inspired in stiller hours. 
Doth pelf soothe sorrowing hearts? Do regal powers 
Enchant the world when creep those slimy woes — 
Rise solitary moments of soul-throes? 

Rome's Colosseum crumbles ! yet song-showers 
Refresh, through life, the heart's long-wilted flowers- 
Sweet idylls please ; an epic lore bestows. 

So write those epics bubbling from thy soul ! 

If soul, love, passion, sincerity abide. 

Thy song, thy work, will spread o'er countries wide 
Touch all men's hearts — as where San Giovanno's toll 

To Venice heralds morn's awakening 

The gondoliers yet Tasso's epic sing ! 







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